The Life of Charlotte Bronte, by Elizabeth Gaskell

Chapter IV

The tale of “Shirley” had been begun soon after the publication of “Jane Eyre.” If the reader will
refer to the account I have given of Miss Bronte’s schooldays at Roe Head, he will there see how every place
surrounding that house was connected with the Luddite riots, and will learn how stories and anecdotes of that time were
rife among the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages; how Miss Wooler herself, and the elder relations of most of
her schoolfellows, must have known the actors in those grim disturbances. What Charlotte had heard there as a girl came
up in her mind when, as a woman, she sought a subject for her next work; and she sent to Leeds for a file of the
Mercuries of 1812, ‘13, and ‘14; in order to understand the spirit of those eventful times. She was anxious to write of
things she had known and seen; and among the number was the West Yorkshire character, for which any tale laid among the
Luddites would afford full scope. In “Shirley” she took the idea of most of her characters from life, although the
incidents and situations were, of course, fictitious. She thought that if these last were purely imaginary, she might
draw from the real without detection, but in this she was mistaken; her studies were too closely accurate. This
occasionally led her into difficulties. People recognised themselves, or were recognised by others, in her graphic
descriptions of their personal appearance, and modes of action and turns of thought; though they were placed in new
positions, and figured away in scenes far different to those in which their actual life had been passed. Miss Bronte
was struck by the force or peculiarity of the character of some one whom she knew; she studied it, and analysed it with
subtle power; and having traced it to its germ, she took that germ as the nucleus of an imaginary character, and worked
outwards; — thus reversing the process of analysation, and unconsciously reproducing the same external development. The
“three curates” were real living men, haunting Haworth and the neighbouring district; and so obtuse in perception that,
after the first burst of anger at having their ways and habits chronicled was over, they rather enjoyed the joke of
calling each other by the names she had given them. “Mrs. Pryor” was well known to many who loved the original dearly.
The whole family of the Yorkes were, I have been assured, almost daguerreotypes. Indeed Miss Bronte told me that,
before publication, she had sent those parts of the novel in which these remarkable persons are introduced, to one of
the sons; and his reply, after reading it, was simply that “she had not drawn them strong enough.” From those
many-sided sons, I suspect, she drew all that there was of truth in the characters of the heroes in her first two
works. They, indeed, were almost the only young men she knew intimately, besides her brother. There was much
friendship, and still more confidence between the Bronte family and them — although their intercourse was often broken
and irregular. There was never any warmer feeling on either side.

The character of Shirley herself, is Charlotte’s representation of Emily. I mention this, because all that I, a
stranger, have been able to learn about her has not tended to give either me, or my readers, a pleasant impression of
her. But we must remember how little we are acquainted with her, compared to that sister, who, out of her more intimate
knowledge, says that she “was genuinely good, and truly great,” and who tried to depict her character in Shirley
Keeldar, as what Emily Bronte would have been, had she been placed in health and prosperity.

Miss Bronte took extreme pains with “Shirley.” She felt that the fame she had acquired imposed upon her a double
responsibility. She tried to make her novel like a piece of actual life — feeling sure that, if she but represented the
product of personal experience and observation truly, good would come out of it in the long run. She carefully studied
the different reviews and criticisms that had appeared on “Jane Eyre,” in hopes of extracting precepts and advice from
which to profit.

Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts of death. She had nearly finished the second volume of her
tale when Branwell died — after him Emily — after her Anne; — the pen, laid down when there were three sisters living
and loving, was taken up when one alone remained. Well might she call the first chapter that she wrote after this, “The
Valley of the Shadow of Death.”

I knew in part what the unknown author of “Shirley” must have suffered, when I read those pathetic words which occur
at the end of this and the beginning of the succeeding chapter:—

“Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.

“Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on
the forehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the
Invisible. ‘Spare my beloved,’ it may implore. ‘Heal my life’s life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines with
my whole nature. God of Heaven — bend — hear — be clement!’ And after this cry and strife, the sun may rise and see him
worsted. That opening morn, which used to salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may breathe,
as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and heat have quitted — ‘Oh! I have had a suffering night. This
morning I am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to have troubled me.’

“Then the watcher approaches the patient’s pillow, and sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar features,
feels at once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God’s will his idol should be broken, and bends
his head, and subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert, and scarce can bear . . . .

“No piteous, unconscious moaning sound — which so wastes our strength that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush
of unconquerable tears sweeps away the oath — preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy followed. The first words
spoken were not those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into realms
foreign to the living.”

She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary to write without any one to listen to the progress of her tale
— to find fault or to sympathise — while pacing the length of the parlour in the evenings, as in the days that were no
more. Three sisters had done this — then two, the other sister dropping off from the walk — and now one was left
desolate, to listen for echoing steps that never came — and to hear the wind sobbing at the windows, with an almost
articulate sound.

But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of illness; “continually recurring feelings of slight cold;
slight soreness in the throat and chest, of which, do what I will,” she writes, “I cannot get rid.”

In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily but temporary.

“Aug. 23rd, 1849.

“Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another attack of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for
some days — more wretched indeed than I care to tell you. After what has happened, one trembles at any appearance of
sickness; and when anything ails Papa, I feel too keenly that he is the LAST— the only near and dear relative I have in
the world. Yesterday and to-day he has seemed much better, for which I am truly thankful . . . .

“From what you say of Mr. — — I think I should like him very much. —— wants shaking to be put out about his
appearance. What does it matter whether her husband dines in a dress-coat, or a market-coat, provided there be worth,
and honesty, and a clean shirt underneath?”

“Sept. 10th, 1849.

“My piece of work is at last finished, and despatched to its destination. You must now tell me when there is a
chance of your being able to come here. I fear it will now be difficult to arrange, as it is so near the marriage-day.
Note well, it would spoil all my pleasure, if you put yourself or any one else to inconvenience to come to Haworth. But
when it is CONVENIENT, I shall be truly glad to see you. . . . Papa, I am thankful to say, is better, though
not strong. He is often troubled with a sensation of nausea. My cold is very much less troublesome, I am sometimes
quite free from it. A few days since, I had a severe bilious attack, the consequence of sitting too closely to my
writing; but it is gone now. It is the first from which I have suffered since my return from the sea-side. I had them
every month before.”

“Sept. 13th, 1849.

“If duty and the well-being of others require that you should stay at home, I cannot permit myself to complain,
still, I am very, VERY sorry that circumstances will not permit us to meet just now. I would without hesitation come to
— — if Papa were stronger; but uncertain as are both his health and spirits, I could not possibly prevail on myself to
leave him now. Let us hope that when we do see each other our meeting will be all the more pleasurable for being
delayed. Dear E— — you certain]y have a heavy burden laid on your shoulders, but such burdens, if well borne, benefit
the character; only we must take the GREATEST, CLOSEST, MOST WATCHFUL care not to grow proud of our strength, in case
we should be enabled to bear up under the trial. That pride, indeed, would be sign of radical weakness. The strength,
if strength we have, is certainly never in our own selves; it is given us.”

To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

“Sept. 21st, 1849.

“My dear Sir — I am obliged to you for preserving my secret, being at least as anxious as ever (MORE anxious I
cannot well be) to keep quiet. You asked me in one of your letters lately, whether I thought I should escape
identification in Yorkshire. I am so little known, that I think I shall. Besides, the book is far less founded on the
Real, than perhaps appears. It would be difficult to explain to you how little actual experience I have had of life,
how few persons I have known, and how very few have known me.

“As an instance how the characters have been managed, take that of Mr. Helstone. If this character had an original,
it was in the person of a clergyman who died some years since at the advanced age of eighty. I never saw him except
once — at the consecration of a church — when I was a child of ten years old. I was then struck with his appearance,
and stern, martial air. At a subsequent period, I heard him talked about in the neighbourhood where he had resided:
some mention him with enthusiasm — others with detestation. I listened to various anecdotes, balanced evidence against
evidence, and drew an inference. The original of Mr. Hall I have seen; he knows me slightly; but he would as soon think
I had closely observed him or taken him for a character — he would as soon, indeed, suspect me of writing a hook — a
novel — as he would his dog, Prince. Margaret Hall called “Jane Eyre” a ‘wicked book,’ on the authority of the
Quarterly; an expression which, coming from her, I will here confess, struck somewhat deep. It opened my eyes to the
harm the Quarterly had done. Margaret would not have called it ‘wicked,’ if she had not been told so.

“No matter — whether known or unknown — misjudged, or the contrary — I am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall
bend as my powers tend. The two human beings who understood me, and whom I understood, are gone: I have some that love
me yet, and whom I love, without expecting, or having a right to expect, that they shall perfectly understand me. I am
satisfied; but I must have my own way in the matter of writing. The loss of what we possess nearest and dearest to us
in this world, produces an effect upon the character we search out what we have yet left that can support, and, when
found, we cling to it with a hold of new-strung tenacity. The faculty of imagination lifted me when I was sinking,
three months ago; its active exercise has kept my head above water since; its results cheer me now, for I feel they
have enabled me to give pleasure to others. I am thankful to God, who gave me the faculty; and it is for me a part of
my religion to defend this gift, and to profit by its possession. — Yours sincerely,

“CHARLOTTE BRONTE.”

At the time when this letter was written, both Tabby and the young servant whom they had to assist her were ill in
bed; and, with the exception of occasional aid, Miss Bronte had all the household work to perform, as well as to nurse
the two invalids.

The serious illness of the younger servant was at its height, when a cry from Tabby called Miss Bronte into the
kitchen, and she found the poor old woman of eighty laid on the floor, with her head under the kitchen-grate; she had
fallen from her chair in attempting to rise. When I saw her, two years later, she described to me the tender care which
Charlotte had taken of her at this time; and wound up her account of “how her own mother could not have had more
thought for her nor Miss Bronte had,” by saying, “Eh! she’s a good one — she IS!”

But there was one day when the strung nerves gave way — when, as she says, “I fairly broke down for ten minutes; sat
and cried like a fool. Tabby could neither stand nor walk. Papa had just been declaring that Martha was in imminent
danger. I was myself depressed with headache and sickness. That day I hardly knew what to do, or where to turn. Thank
God! Martha is now convalescent: Tabby, I trust, will be better soon. Papa is pretty well. I have the satisfaction of
knowing that my publishers are delighted with what I sent them. This supports me. But life is a battle. May we all be
enabled to fight it well!”

The kind friend, to whom she thus wrote, saw how the poor over- taxed system needed bracing, and accordingly sent
her a shower- bath — a thing for which she had long been wishing. The receipt of it was acknowledged as follows:—

“Sept. 28th, 1849. “ . . . Martha is now almost well, and Tabby much better. A huge monster-package, from
‘Nelson, Leeds,’ came yesterday. You want chastising roundly and soundly. Such are the thanks you get for all your
trouble. . . . Whenever you come to Haworth, you shall certainly have a thorough drenching in your own
shower-bath. I have not yet unpacked the wretch. —“Yours, as you deserve, C. B.”

There was misfortune of another kind impending over her. There were some railway shares, which, so early as 1846,
she had told Miss Wooler she wished to sell, but had kept because she could not persuade her sisters to look upon the
affair as she did, and so preferred running the risk of loss, to hurting Emily’s feelings by acting in opposition to
her opinion. The depreciation of these same shares was now verifying Charlotte’s soundness of judgment. They were in
the York and North-Midland Company, which was one of Mr. Hudson’s pet lines, and had the full benefit of his peculiar
system of management. She applied to her friend and publisher, Mr. Smith, for information on the subject; and the
following letter is in answer to his reply:—

“Oct. 4th, 1849.

“My dear Sir — I must not THANK you for, but acknowledge the receipt of your letter. The business is certainly very
bad; worse than I thought, and much worse than my father has any idea of. In fact, the little railway property I
possessed, according to original prices, formed already a small competency for me, with my views and habits. Now,
scarcely any portion of it can, with security, be calculated upon. I must open this view of the case to my father by
degrees; and, meanwhile, wait patiently till I see how affairs are likely to turn. . . . However the matter
may terminate, I ought perhaps to be rather thankful than dissatisfied. When I look at my own case, and compare it with
that of thousands besides, I scarcely see room for a murmur. Many, very many, are by the late strange railway system
deprived almost of their daily bread. Such then as have only lost provision laid up for the future, should take care
how they complain. The thought that ‘Shirley’ has given pleasure at Cornhill, yields me much quiet comfort. No doubt,
however, you are, as I am, prepared for critical severity; but I have good hopes that the vessel is sufficiently sound
of construction to weather a gale or two, and to make a prosperous voyage for you in the end.”

Towards the close of October in this year, she went to pay a visit to her friend; but her enjoyment in the holiday,
which she had so long promised herself when her work was completed, was deadened by a continual feeling of ill-health;
either the change of air or the foggy weather produced constant irritation at the chest. Moreover, she was anxious
about the impression which her second work would produce on the public mind. For obvious reasons an author is more
susceptible to opinions pronounced on the book which follows a great success, than he has ever been before. Whatever be
the value of fame, he has it in his possession, and is not willing to have it dimmed or lost.

“Shirley” was published on October 26th.

When it came out, but before reading it, Mr. Lewes wrote to tell her of his intention of reviewing it in the
Edinburgh. Her correspondence with him had ceased for some time: much had occurred since.

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

“Nov. 1st, 1849.

“My dear Sir — It is about a year and a half since you wrote to me; but it seems a longer period, because since then
it has been my lot to pass some black milestones in the journey of life. Since then there have been intervals when I
have ceased to care about literature and critics and fame; when I have lost sight of whatever was prominent in my
thoughts at the first publication of ‘Jane Eyre;’ but now I want these things to come back vividly, if possible:
consequently, it was a pleasure to receive your note. I wish you did not think me a woman. I wish all reviewers
believed ‘Currer Bell’ to be a man; they would be more just to him. You will, I know, keep measuring me by some
standard of what you deem becoming to my sex; where I am not what you consider graceful, you will condemn me. All
mouths will be open against that first chapter; and that first chapter is true as the Bible, nor is it exceptionable.
Come what will, I cannot, when I write, think always of myself and of what is elegant and charming in femininity; it is
not on those terms, or with such ideas, I ever took pen in hand: and if it is only on such terms my writing will be
tolerated, I shall pass away from the public and trouble it no more. Out of obscurity I came, to obscurity I can easily
return. Standing afar off, I now watch to see what will become of ‘Shirley.’ My expectations are very low, and my
anticipations somewhat sad and bitter; still, I earnestly conjure you to say honestly what you think; flattery would be
worse than vain; there is no consolation in flattery. As for condemnation I cannot, on reflection, see why I should
much fear it; there is no one but myself to suffer therefrom, and both happiness and suffering in this life soon pass
away. Wishing you all success in your Scottish expedition — I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,

C. BELL.”

Miss Bronte, as we have seen, had been as anxious as ever to preserve her incognito in “Shirley.” She even fancied
that there were fewer traces of a female pen in it than in “Jane Eyre”; and thus, when the earliest reviews were
published, and asserted that the mysterious writer must be a woman, she was much disappointed. She especially disliked
the lowering of the standard by which to judge a work of fiction, if it proceeded from a feminine pen; and praise
mingled with pseudo-gallant allusions to her sex, mortified her far more than actual blame.

But the secret, so jealously preserved, was oozing out at last. The publication of “Shirley” seemed to fix the
conviction that the writer was an inhabitant of the district where the story was laid. And a clever Haworth man, who
had somewhat risen in the world, and gone to settle in Liverpool, read the novel, and was struck with some of the names
of places mentioned, and knew the dialect in which parts of it were written. He became convinced that it was the
production of some one in Haworth. But he could not imagine who in that village could have written such a work except
Miss Bronte. Proud of his conjecture, he divulged the suspicion (which was almost certainty) in the columns of a
Liverpool paper; thus the heart of the mystery came slowly creeping out; and a visit to London, which Miss Bronte paid
towards the end of the year 1849, made it distinctly known. She had been all along on most happy terms with her
publishers; and their kindness had beguiled some of those weary, solitary hours which had so often occurred of late, by
sending for her perusal boxes of books more suited to her tastes than any she could procure from the circulating
library at Keighley. She often writes such sentences as the following, in her letters to Cornhill:—

“I was indeed very much interested in the books you sent ‘Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe,’ ‘Guesses as
Truth,’ ‘Friends in Council,’ and the little work on English social life, pleased me particularly, and the last not
least. We sometimes take a partiality to books as to characters, not on account of any brilliant intellect or striking
peculiarity they boast, but for the sake of something good, delicate, and genuine. I thought that small book the
production of a lady, and an amiable, sensible woman, and I liked it. You must not think of selecting any more works
for me yet; my stock is still far from exhausted.

“I accept your offer respecting the ‘Athenaeum;’ it is a paper I should like much to see, providing that you can
send it without trouble. It shall be punctually returned.”

In a letter to her friend she complains of the feelings of illness from which she was seldom or never free.

“Nov. 16th, 1849.

You are not to suppose any of the characters in ‘Shirley’ intended as literal portraits. It would not suit the rules
of art, nor of my own feelings; to write in that style. We only suffer reality to SUGGEST, never to DICTATE. The
heroines are abstractions and the heroes also. Qualities I have seen, loved, and admired, are here and there put in as
decorative gems, to be preserved in that sitting. Since you say you could recognise the originals of all except the
heroines, pray whom did you suppose the two Moores to represent? I send you a couple of reviews; the one is in the
Examiner, written by Albany Fonblanque, who is called the most brilliant political writer of the day, a man whose
dictum is much thought of in London. The other, in the Standard of Freedom, is written by William Howitt, a Quaker!
. . . I should be pretty well, if it were not for headaches and indigestion. My chest has been better
lately.”

In consequence of this long-protracted state of languor, headache, and sickness, to which the slightest exposure to
cold added sensations of hoarseness and soreness at the chest, she determined to take the evil in time, as much for her
father’s sake as for her own, and to go up to London and consult some physician there. It was not her first intention
to visit anywhere; but the friendly urgency of her publishers prevailed, and it was decided that she was to become the
guest of Mr. Smith. Before she went, she wrote two characteristic letters about “Shirley,” from which I shall take a
few extracts.

“‘Shirley’ makes her way. The reviews shower in fast. . . . The best critique which has yet appeared is in
the Revue des deux Mondes, a sort of European Cosmopolitan periodical, whose head- quarters are at Paris. Comparatively
few reviewers, even in their praise, evince a just comprehension of the author’s meaning. Eugene Forcarde, the reviewer
in question, follows Currer Bell through every winding, discerns every point, discriminates every shade, proves himself
master of the subject, and lord of the aim. With that man I would shake hands, if I saw him. I would say, ‘You know me,
Monsieur; I shall deem it an honour to know you.’ I could not say so much of the mass of the London critics. Perhaps I
could not say so much to five hundred men and women in all the millions of Great Britain. That matters little. My own
conscience I satisfy first; and having done that, if I further content and delight a Forsarde, a Fonblanque, and a
Thackeray, my ambition has had its ration, it is fed; it lies down for the present satisfied; my faculties have wrought
a day’s task, and earned a day’s wages. I am no teacher; to look on me in that light is to mistake me. To teach is not
my vocation. What I AM, it is useless to say. Those whom it concerns feel and find it out. To all others I wish only to
be an obscure, steady-going, private character. To you, dear E— — I wish to be a sincere friend. Give me your faithful
regard; I willingly dispense with admiration.”

“Nov. 26th.

“It is like you to pronounce the reviews not good enough, and belongs to that part of your character which will not
permit you to bestow unqualified approbation on any dress, decoration, etc., belonging to you. Know that the reviews
are superb; and were I dissatisfied with them, I should be a conceited ape. Nothing higher is ever said, FROM PERFECTLY
DISINTERESTED MOTIVES, of any living authors. If all be well, I go to London this week; Wednesday, I think. The
dress-maker has done my small matters pretty well, but I wish you could have looked them over, and given a dictum. I
insisted on the dresses being made quite plainly.”

At the end of November she went up to the “big Babylon,” and was immediately plunged into what appeared to her a
whirl; for changes, and scenes, and stimulus which would have been a trifle to others, were much to her. As was always
the case with strangers, she was a little afraid at first of the family into which she was now received, fancying that
the ladies looked on her with a mixture of respect and alarm; but in a few days, if this state of feeling ever existed,
her simple, shy, quiet manners, her dainty personal and household ways, had quite done away with it, and she says that
she thinks they begin to like her, and that she likes them much, for “kindness is a potent heart-winner.” She had
stipulated that she should not be expected to see many people. The recluse life she had led, was the cause of a nervous
shrinking from meeting any fresh face, which lasted all her life long. Still, she longed to have an idea of the
personal appearance and manners of some of those whose writings or letters had interested her. Mr. Thackeray was
accordingly invited to meet her, but it so happened that she had been out for the greater part of the morning, and, in
consequence, missed the luncheon hour at her friend’s house. This brought on a severe and depressing headache in one
accustomed to the early, regular hours of a Yorkshire Parsonage; besides, the excitement of meeting, hearing, and
sitting next a man to whom she looked up with such admiration as she did to the author of “Vanity Fair,” was of itself
overpowering to her frail nerves. She writes about this dinner as follows:—

“Dec. 10th, 1849.

“As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of excitement; but I suffer acute pain sometimes — mental
pain, I mean. At the moment Mr. Thackeray presented himself, I was thoroughly faint from inanition, having eaten
nothing since a very slight breakfast, and it was then seven o’clock in the evening. Excitement and exhaustion made
savage work of me that evening. What he thought of me I cannot tell.”

She told me how difficult she found it, this first time of meeting Mr. Thackeray, to decide whether he was speaking
in jest or in earnest, and that she had (she believed) completely misunderstood an inquiry of his, made on the
gentlemen’s coming into the drawing-room. He asked her “if she had perceived the secret of their cigars;” to which she
replied literally, discovering in a minute afterwards, by the smile on several faces, that he was alluding to a passage
in “Jane Eyre”. Her hosts took pleasure in showing her the sights of London. On one of the days which had been set
apart for some of these pleasant excursions, a severe review of “Shirley” was published in the Times. She had heard
that her book would be noticed by it, and guessed that there was some particular reason for the care with which her
hosts mislaid it on that particular morning. She told them that she was aware why she might not see the paper. Mrs.
Smith at once admitted that her conjecture was right, and said that they had wished her to go to the day’s engagement
before reading it. But she quietly persisted in her request to be allowed to have the paper. Mrs. Smith took her work,
and tried not to observe the countenance, which the other tried to hide between the large sheets; but she could not
help becoming aware of tears stealing down the face and dropping on the lap. The first remark Miss Bronte made was to
express her fear lest so severe a notice should check the sale of the book, and injuriously affect her publishers.
Wounded as she was, her first thought was for others. Later on (I think that very afternoon) Mr. Thackeray called; she
suspected (she said) that he came to see how she bore the attack on “Shirley;” but she had recovered her composure, and
conversed very quietly with him: he only learnt from the answer to his direct inquiry that she had read the Times’
article. She acquiesced in the recognition of herself as the authoress of “Jane Eyre,” because she perceived that there
were some advantages to be derived from dropping her pseudonym. One result was an acquaintance with Miss Martineau. She
had sent her the novel just published, with a curious note, in which Currer Bell offered a copy of “Shirley” to Miss
Martineau, as an acknowledgment of the gratification he had received from her works. From “Deerbrook” he had derived a
new and keen pleasure, and experienced a genuine benefit. In HIS mind “Deerbrook,” etc.

Miss Martineau, in acknowledging this note and the copy of “Shirley,” dated her letter from a friend’s house in the
neighbourhood of Mr. Smith’s residence; and when, a week or two afterwards, Miss Bronte found how near she was to her
correspondent, she wrote, in the name of Currer Bell, to propose a visit to her. Six o’clock, on a certain Sunday
afternoon (Dec. 10th), was the time appointed. Miss Martineau’s friends had invited the unknown Currer Bell to their
early tea; they were ignorant whether the name was that of a man or a woman; and had had various conjectures as to sex,
age, and appearance. Miss Martineau had, indeed, expressed her private opinion pretty distinctly by beginning her
reply, to the professedly masculine note referred to above, with “Dear Madam;” but she had addressed it to “Currer
Bell, Esq.” At every ring the eyes of the party turned towards the door. Some stranger (a gentleman, I think) came in;
for an instant they fancied he was Currer Bell, and indeed an Esq.; he stayed some time — went away. Another ring;
“Miss Bronte was announced; and in came a young-looking lady, almost child-like in stature, in a deep mourning dress,
neat as a Quaker’s, with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her fine eyes blazing with meaning and her sensible face
indicating a habit of self-control.” She came — hesitated one moment at finding four or five people assembled — then
went straight to Miss Martineau with intuitive recognition, and, with the free-masonry of good feeling and gentle
breeding, she soon became as one of the family seated round the tea-table; and, before she left, she told them, in a
simple, touching manner, of her sorrow and isolation, and a foundation was laid for her intimacy with Miss
Martineau.

After some discussion on the subject, and a stipulation that she should not be specially introduced to any one, some
gentlemen were invited by Mr. Smith to meet her at dinner the evening before she left town. Her natural place would
have been at the bottom of the table by her host; and the places of those who were to be her neighbours were arranged
accordingly; but, on entering the dining-room, she quickly passed up so as to sit next to the lady of the house,
anxious to shelter herself near some one of her own sex. This slight action arose out of the same womanly seeking after
protection on every occasion, when there was no moral duty involved in asserting her independence, that made her about
this time write as follows: “Mrs. —— watches me very narrowly when surrounded by strangers. She never takes her eye
from me. I like the surveillance; it seems to keep guard over me.”

Respecting this particular dinner-party she thus wrote to the Brussels schoolfellow of former days, whose friendship
had been renewed during her present visit to London:—

“The evening after I left you passed better than I expected. Thanks to my substantial lunch and cheering cup of
coffee, I was able to wait the eight o’clock dinner with complete resignation, and to endure its length quite
courageously, nor was I too much exhausted to converse; and of this I was glad, for otherwise I know my kind host and
hostess would have been much disappointed. There were only seven gentlemen at dinner besides Mr. Smith, but of these
five were critics — men more dreaded in the world of letters than you can conceive. I did not know how much their
presence and conversation had excited me till they were gone, and the reaction commenced. When I had retired for the
night, I wished to sleep — the effort to do so was vain. I could not close my eyes. Night passed; morning came, and I
rose without having known a moment’s slumber. So utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby, that I was again obliged
to stay there all night.”

“Dec. 17th.

“Here I am at Haworth once more. I feel as if I had come out of an exciting whirl. Not that the hurry and stimulus
would have seemed much to one accustomed to society and change, but to me they were very marked. My strength and
spirits too often proved quite insufficient to the demand on their exertions. I used to bear up as long as I possibly
could, for, when I flagged, I could see Mr. Smith became disturbed; he always thought that something had been said or
done to annoy me — which never once happened, for I met with perfect good breeding even from antagonists — men who had
done their best or worst to write me down. I explained to him over and over again, that my occasional silence was only
failure of the power to talk, never of the will . . . .

“Thackeray is a Titan of mind. His presence and powers impress one deeply in an intellectual sense; I do not see him
or know him as a man. All the others are subordinate. I have esteem for some, and, I trust, courtesy for all. I do not,
of course, know what they thought of me, but I believe most of them expected me to come out in a more marked,
eccentric, striking light. I believe they desired more to admire and more to blame. I felt sufficiently at my ease with
all but Thackeray; with him I was fearfully stupid.”

She returned to her quiet home, and her noiseless daily duties. Her father had quite enough of the spirit of
hero-worship in him to make him take a vivid pleasure in the accounts of what she had heard and whom she had seen. It
was on the occasion of one of her visits to London that he had desired her to obtain a sight of Prince Albert’s
armoury, if possible. I am not aware whether she managed to do this; but she went to one or two of the great national
armouries in order that she might describe the stern steel harness and glittering swords to her father, whose
imagination was forcibly struck by the idea of such things; and often afterwards, when his spirits flagged and the
languor of old age for a time got the better of his indomitable nature, she would again strike on the measure wild, and
speak about the armies of strange weapons she had seen in London, till he resumed his interest in the old subject, and
was his own keen, warlike, intelligent self again.